THE SEX ISSUE
Vol. 3 THE SEX ISSUE
WUSSY is an Atlanta-based publication that produces original content which encourages the discussion of life, politics, art, and expression from the perspective of the LGBTQIA+ community
Shibari / Lear Podurgiel Inside Cover Untitled / Laura Thigpen 1 - 4 Intent Matter / Johnnie Ray Kornegay III 5, 7, 8 Anticipation I & II / Jessica Daily 6, 75 Untitled / Shelby Hawk 9, 11, 12, 14 How Soon Is Too Soon? / Aila Boyd 10 Untitled / Kate Shannon 15, 16 UN(der)COVER / LaRue Calliet 17 - 19
Earstuck, Premium, Some Miserly Notes on Doubt / Ryder McEntyre 18, 20 Featured Artist / Mo Costello 21 - 26 Untitled / Brian Barbieri 27, 29, 30, 32 Headless Jerk / Nico Stuart 28, 31 Faggot / Allen Forrest 33 - 35 Untitled / Richard Vyse 36 - 38 Untitled / Matt Jones 39, 40, Back Cover HDR / David Howard 41 Prurient / Jack Wortel 42 Untitled / Chris Humbles 43 - 46 Dr. Gay Love / Alex Franco 47, 48 Untitled / CK Walker 49, 50 Public Sex / Rachel Barton 51 - 55 Untitled / Austin Frantz 52, 53, 56 Untitled / Jesus Ordaz 57 - 60 Cover Story / Ryan Duffin Front Cover, 61, 63, 66 - 68 Cover Story / Tyler Scruggs 63 - 65 Untitled / Joshua Tabor 69, 72 The Castle / Alex Cheves 70, 71 Macaroons / Maz Ei 73, 76 Reply / Stone Irvin 74 Femme AF / Jon Dean 77, 80 - 82 Peach & Cream / Rachel Garbus 78, 79 Untitled / David Parra 83, 85, 86, 88 “Going Down” Excerpt / Mykel Johnson 84, 87 Morning Woody / Curtis Bryant 89, 90 Untitled / Rico Thorton 91, 94 Self-Consummation of a Queer Black Woman / Kae Goode 92, 93 Untitled / Cameron Lee 95, 96 Harnesses: Day & Night / Luis Aceves 97 - 102 Untitled / Kylie Ann Petrie 103 - 106 Featured Artist / Mickey Aloisio 107 - 112
A N T I C I P AT I O N
A N T I C I P AT Out of nowhere I ran into you. You took my compass and smashed it, took the needle and held it to my neck…challenging my direction, my existence, my sex. I closed my eyes and let the point sink in…to my flesh…to my thoughts…
Now I wait with anticipation at the straps newly placed on your bed And I can’t wait for you to tell me what I’m not allowed to do My eyes begging you to not treat me right Please don’t treat me right. When I wake up in the morning I want to see the map you’ve left on my body- the tracks of where you’ve been. I want my legs to quiver…the tension of being touched…of not being able to move… or close my legs… You’re going to give it all to me- your facial expression calculates your moves and gives you away- and that is where I know my power… How hard you jerk my leash…the depth your knife digs in…the tightness of your grip on my neck… Is up to me.
JESSICA DAILY 6
It’s not that uncommon for most people’s “first time” to be completely awful due to the fact that most people are ill-advised on what sex is really like. The sex-ed classes at my former high school, and I would assume most high schools, certainly didn’t live up to the name by accurately educating us about the good, the bad, and the ugly when it came to the loss of our virginity. With that being said, I consider my “first time” to be far worse than most people’s “first times.” I don’t say that because it hurt a lot, which it absolutely did, or because it was in the backseat of my car, which of course it was. The reason why my “first time” still makes me cringe to this day is because it was only two weeks after I had undergone sex reassignment surgery. I was 21 when it happened and had stayed abstinent up until that point because, in my mind, it just wouldn’t have been right to have engaged in anal sex. I experienced a mental block that prevented me from even considering engaging in anal sex as a pre-op trans woman. I feared that if I did decided to go ahead and engage in anal sex, it would somehow mean that I was less of a woman than if I hadn’t engaged in it. I falsely equated anal sex with gay men and refused to even consider the notion, which of course resulted in the fact that I had a lot of repressed and built up sexual desire. Even though my main objective in having sex reassignment surgery was to be able to feel more comfortable in my body, I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t more than a little thrilled by the notion of finally being able to have vaginal sex with a man. To me, nothing seemed more affirming of my gender identity than simple missionary position, heterosexual sex. In anticipation of the surgery and the newfound sexual freedom that it was going to allow me, I downloaded Tinder roughly a month before I was scheduled to fly to Miami for the procedure and used it to amass a fairly significant number of matches. I had it all planned out in my mind: I was going to finally lose my virginity on the first day that the doctor would clear me for sexual intercourse. As I swiped right for man after man, I questioned whether or not any of the men that I was matching with were going to be accepting of the fact that I identified as a transgender woman and to my surprise, out of all of the men that I matched with, only a handful of them seemed to be phased by my fairly intimate admission. The only caveat that they hung their offer for sex on was that I had to possess a “pussy.” After I had flown back home following the one week recovery period that I spent at the Miami clinic, I found myself spending more and more time swiping right on Tinder. When I arrived 10
back home, there really wasn’t anything for me to do besides be on Tinder. All of the initial excitement that was associated with the actual surgery had passed and all I was left with was my burning desire to go ahead and get my “first time” out of the way. Finally, something broke inside me immediately following the conclusion of my first week back home in Virginia. All of the chiseled jaws and toned chests of the men that composed my “matches” on Tinder overpowered the little voice inside my head that was telling me that I still had a month before I was cleared to do any of the things that I had been dreaming about. I finally settled on a guy who lived in the next town over from where I did. Tim was his name. He was a college sophomore and his physical characteristics made my heart rate increase. Tall. Lean. Athletic. Most of all, he had a perfectly soft head of light brown curls. On the night that we finally decided to meet up, we went to a bar so that we could get a feel for each other before proceeding to anything else. Wanting to be as transparent as possible, I told him upfront about my situation. I disclosed to him that I had recently undergone SRS, but neglected to be completely honest with him about how accurate my description of recent actually was out of fear that if I did, he would cut his losses and walk. 11
When we first met in the bar, we immediately connected. There wasn’t an ounce of awkwardness between us. After only having been around him for a few minutes, I knew without a doubt that I wanted him to be my “first.” After having spent a few hours at the bar, I ordered lots and lots of vodka and he only ordered a few craft beers, we decided that it was finally time to move forward. We were both teetering on the edge of being just drunk enough to feel invincible and being too far gone to actually do anything of real sexual substance. D u e to the fact we were both unsafe to drive at that point, we decided to crawl into the back of my SUV, which had an unexpectedly l a r g e backseat, and commenced to heavy kissing and petting. The minute that I felt his lips press up against mine, I pretty much fell apart. Reality set in and I was faced with the reality that the day that I had been dreaming about was finally happening. Perhaps feeling a little overexcited, I didn’t waste much time and immediately started undressing. I was so excited by the fact that I was about to experience my “first time” that I didn’t stop to enjoy the genuine connection that I had with him. I was ready to get down to business and I could tell that my forwardness had caught him off guard. However, once I had kicked things off, there
was no stopping us. We both shed out clothes in a strikingly short amount of time. Although the backseat of my car was fairly dark, there was no getting around the fact that my vagina didn’t look the way that vaginas should actually look. Considering that I was just barely two weeks post-op, the surgical wounds were still in the early stages of healing. My vagina was still puffy. My entire pelvic region was swollen more than three times the size that it should have actually been. Truth be told, I had just had the stitches removed earlier that day. Despite the fact that my doctor had told me time and time again that I wasn’t cleared for any kind of physical or sexual activity for at least six weeks following my surgery, I wasn’t about to let something as insignificant as my recovery slow down the momentum that Tim and I had going for us. I didn’t even ask him if he had brought his own condom, I just took it upon myself to go ahead and pull out the same condom that I had been carrying around in my purse for years in anticipation of my “first time” and ripped it open. “You don’t mind, do you?” I asked him as I grabbed a hold of his enlarged appendage
and started to roll the condom down over top of it. He simply offered a halfhearted drunken chuckle and shook his head. When it came time for him to go ahead and insert himself inside me, something very awkward happened… He couldn’t. He couldn’t and it wasn’t for a lack of trying. He pushed and pushed with all his might, but wasn’t able to get more than just the tip of his head inside my newly minted vagina. After watching him struggle for some time, I finally decided to step and see if I could do any better so I grabbed a hold of his cock and tried to ram it into me the best I could, but I still came up short. All throughout both my efforts and his, a sad reality started to set in… I felt nothing. Due to the fact that I was completely and utterly inebriated, it didn’t dawn on me at that time, but looking back, I realize that the reason why I didn’t feel hardly anything at all was because my nerves down there had yet to recover from all of the trauma that they had underwent as a result of the surgery. After Tim and I both realized that the prospect of vagina intercourse was logistically 12
out of the question, he made a rather bold suggestion.
willing to stomach any longer. I waited silently and stiffly for him to make his next move.
“How do you feel about anal?” he asked me with a glint in his eyes. Immediately, my heart rate started beating far faster than it already had been. I honestly had no clue as to what to say in that moment. My first reaction was to immediately rule anal sex out of the equation without even considering it, however, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that if I said no to the anal, I would essentially be saying no to Tim and no to losing my virginity after having placed so much emphasis on the moment.
“Do you mind if I take the condom off?” he asked me. “It’s difficult for me to stay hard with a condom on.” Without giving his question a second thought, I gave him the go-ahead to rip off the condom and fuck me until our time together reached its natural conclusion. I figured that I had already done so many things that I wouldn’t have otherwise done in order to make it over the hump that was my “first time” that a flimsy piece of latex wasn’t going to make much of a difference in the end.
“I’ve never tried it before, but I want to,” I said to him in a breathy tone. “I want to with you.” Before I knew it, I was on my hands and knees, a position that I had never before assumed. Just as I had suspected, presenting my ass and not my vagina to a man who I was greatly attracted to felt foreign. I felt as though I was betraying my female identity by allowing myself to engage in a sexual act that I had always associated with gay men and not straight women. As I waited for Tim to insert himself inside me, I couldn’t help but focus on the irony that presented itself due to the fact that after years and years of saving my “first time” for when I finally had a vagina, I was about to go ahead and do something that I could have done all along just because I was so anxious to put my new body part to use. With that being said, I didn’t have much time to dwell over my decision because unlike my vagina, my asshole wasn’t numb. It wasn’t numb in the slightest and felt all seven inches of his plump cock. We had only been going at it for a few minutes when Tim’s thrusting slowed to a near stop. I knew something was wrong. I immediately questioned whether or not he had come to his senses and had decided that anal sex with a barely post-operative trans woman was something that he just wasn’t 13
Perhaps he was telling the truth or perhaps it was all in his head, but from there it was all downhill. When he started moaning even louder than he had before, I knew that the end was in sight. “Should I pull out or do you mind if I come in you?” he asked me in-between his deep, manly moans. Once again, I told myself that I had come too far to chicken out at that point, so I told him not to worry about pulling out. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t slightly frightened as I waited for him to shoot his hot, steamy man juice inside me, but before I knew it, he had pulled his cock out and informed me that he was all finished. Perhaps I was too drunk or in too much pain to realize what had even happened. From there, we spent the next few minutes passionately kissing before he told me that he needed to get back home. We said our goodbyes and have never made contact with each other since. After he left, I sat silently in my car and tried to sober up the best I could, but eventually nodded off and didn’t wake back up until early the following morning. It’s been three years since my first and only time. Even though the night that I spent with Tim felt great in the moment, it was all wrong. It happened in the wrong place and at the wrong time. I know that Tim wasn’t
the “right person” per se, but that doesn’t stop me from still wanting to believe that it at least happened with an all right person. He was kind to me when kindness was the most important thing that I needed. He could have simply rejected me in disgust over the fact that my vagina didn’t work that way that it was supposed to, but instead, he suggested and accepted the next best thing. I know now that my judgment was clouded. I should have known that vaginal sex at the two week mark was out of the question considering that I was still only using the smallest dilator that came in the set that my doctor had sent me home with. I guess I figured that my vagina
was going to somehow magically open up at the sight of an actual penis instead of a cold and hard piece of plastic. It’s easy for me to realize now that two weeks after my surgery was far too soon for my “first time.” It wasn’t just physically too soon, but emotionally too soon as well. I should have allowed my flesh and mental wounds to heal following the fairly traumatic surgery instead of pushing myself to immediately start living the life that I had been craving ever since I realized that my anatomy didn’t exactly match my personality.
Earstuck what may be said for a thousand wooden slats while you wait for a eulogy? the signs were all there, never mind the history or risk of a lack of cloudy skies while you dripped in honeyâ€Ś whatever they might celebrate at post-dusk when a single lit window might give you hope that this banquet hasnâ€™t ended just yet, and you may still crave enough to grace them with your presence and accompanying prescience. a hungry violin might pluck from unholy cornucopia pornography, waiting for the concertoâ€™s finale. and when does it end?
Premium grace, turpentine legs and dark unwashed skinny jeans hold an exuberant testament to ignorance, of generalizations and privilege like an awning catching, it knows not who walks beneath comparisons of anything to something else, arbitrary manifestos follow one another down a dark hallway, buried under years of pretense and tension, this extreme or that, no matter, moderation might be oblivion -Ryder McEntyre 18
Some miserly notes on doubt know when to stop with something smaller wrapped in tensile plastic breath let me show you what I’ve written to private oceans between our minds I’ve stolen quite a lot in my time. I’ll bite the insides of my cheeks to blister. You won’t notice. I won’t mind. you’ll glance across the room that night I’ll barely borne the obscured cause Bare as hell, I’ll repeat myself again You won’t notice. I won’t mind. is my throat dry? your’s won’t be. I’ll pull teeth and tiny rips will echo you will notice. I won’t mind.
-Ryder McEntyre 20
C O S T E L L 21
HEADLESS JERK A PLAY BY NICO STUART REX/KYLE: A 20-something boy, looking for love in all the wrong places PHONE/VOICE: Maybe someone important, maybe not. MAN: A man. *** We begin with a few moments of darkness. A line of CRT televisions illuminate with various pornographic images. Moving images of extreme close-ups of pornography appear on the screen in VHS quality. The nostalgia of the tapes is almost heartwarming. As we pan to the final TV set, the music fades. A childhood home video plays on the screen. Alongside it is REX. He’s been expecting you. REX: Hello babes. It’s so good to see you again. I missed you. I’ve got a special surprise for you. Lights down. *** Lights up on a bed, center stage. REX lies on the bed, teenage girl gossip-style and feeling playful. He is wearing a t-shirt and underwear. He is addressing the computer. REX: And guys, remember, anything on my Amazon wishlist is just as good as a tip! And all my videos are on sale this weekend, so go ahead and buy them all! You’ll need them. REX accentuates his ass for the audience. The ding-ding-ding of a casino coin machine plays repeatedly. REX: Thank you, John! Thank you cumslut42! You guys are starting the party early tonight! Rex begins to do a striptease, though never fully removing any clothing. He’s a big tease. We hear the vibration of Rex’s phone. REX: Oh! I’m vibrating. Be right back, babes. Rex climbs off the bed. Lights down center stage. Lights up stage right. Rex stands alone. A phone conversation happens between Rex and an unknown male. PHONE: You need to come home, Kyle. REX: I’m not coming back. I have a job now. And an apartment. PHONE: Kyle, we need to talk. Can you sit down? Lights up on the full stage. There is only a bed and a television in Rex’s apartment. Rex takes a moment to look over his options. There is currently nowhere “safe” to sit. REX: I’m busy right now. PHONE: Kyle… (Beat) REX: Well, I have to get back to work now, so I— PHONE: Kyle, you know this is the last— REX: Ciao, Mary! Rex hangs up the phone. He returns to the bed. REX: Sorry babes, my pimp always calls at the worst times! Lights down *** 28
We return to the CRT TV. A child’s first birthday home video is playing. Lights up to an incredibly white room. The feeling is sterile. REX sits alone, waiting. Staring at the TV. The home video is being used for an AMBER alert. TV: If you have seen this child, or have any information on his whereabouts, please immediately contact-- the audio fizzles out The sound of someone entering the room. We don’t see who. REX looks in his direction. VOICE: You know you had more time. REX does not respond. He continues to stare. VOICE: Do you even care? (Beat) VOICE: You haven’t changed. Blackout *** Lights and music up simultaneously -- A pulsing trance tune fills the room. Bodies. Dancing, craving, wanting. Among them, REX. He could have any of them. He wants none of them. He’ll take whoever asks first. MAN: You want it, little boy? REX: I want it. The figures move in closer. So close. All we see is a tangle of limbs. REX’s face is dead center. He is almost drowning in the sea of lusting appendages. MAN: Are you ready for it? Rex: I’m ready Suddenly, it’s REX and MAN alone. For a moment, it feels romantic. Then: MAN Slaps REX across the face. Hard. MAN: Show some fucking respect, boy Rex: Yes, sir. Another slap. MAN: APOLOGIZE, BOY Rex: I’m sorry, sir. MAN: Sorry for what, boy (Beat) MAN: You better speak up, kid (Beat) MAN: Alright. MAN leaves. Rex is alone. Kneeling. He is alone for a moment. Then, MAN returns. With each line, he delivers a lashing to Rex. MAN: You’re a horrible son Rex: Thank you, sir. MAN: Lose some fucking weight Rex: Thank you, sir. MAN: You could have been so much more Rex: Thank you, sir. The figure throws the whip to the floor and exits. Rex, a bloody mess, lies in a lump on the floor. We get closer. Closer. Closer. Rex looks directly at the audience. He smiles. Blackout.
“Prurient.” -“Excessively sexual.” When I saw the definition, I’ll admit I felt convicted. I was studying how not to be overthrown by Nazis. I think about it more these days, most of us do. Working in media, I study commentary around the insipid takeover of legislation created in hate. (Basically, I watch many movies with bad German accents.) After watching and reading summaries, I found one reviews of Cabaret in particular peppered with “prurient” I began worrying my forward thinking Facebook feed was diluting fire for resistance. The delusion that everyone is caring and acting is easy to believe when the Facebook equivalent to one’s Top 8 posts are united in their daily distaste. Admittedly, my sense of urgency is exhausted after most meal times and sometimes stubborn zippers. Still, while studying aging musicals for insight in a seemingly apocalyptic climate of mass injustices itself rings a little self-indulgent, that concept kept jumping out at me. Were glitter and online dating a debaucherous distraction? How had losing one’s cares and mandated morality contribute to one of history’s most appalling dictatorships? More importantly, where did I fit in an updated paradigm? Even belonging to a label that embraces the absence of labels, “queerness” is centered in sexuality. In a world that feels entirely consumed by daily revelations of harassment, rampant xenophobia, ableism, homophobia, and sottovoiced racism, against a backdrop of natural disaster, the last thing that I want to admit to is belonging to another group of people more satisfied with their own desires being addressed over the care and nurture of our endangered planet. Is my “Me Too” pulling focus from the more and more disturbing political folly we wade through? Does delighting in and protecting my divergent identity keep me from taking action? Sex is enormously important to me. The release from societal expectation gives me a deep sense of liberty and a strong notion of identity. Sometimes my conduct without clothes allows for the contribution I like best and an effort I’m making toward connecting with others in a fragmented digital age. I cannot be separated from my sexuality and my sexuality is one of the
primary venues for me to express my distance from any of the patterns that were prescribed from an early age by a society I feel deeply requires revision. The fear, however, persists that while the world is burning, hedonic attention to my orientation eclipses my ability to connect to the needs of those outside my community. From a queer world view, this is thankfully impossible. Queerness being inherently radical and intersectional means that our concerns are never limited to the nuances of sex and layered relationships. Queerness itself means taking on understanding swept out of view or harshly suppressed. Queerness being such a humanizing and specific lens applied to intimate relationships, radiates into other arenas powerfully. Where race, nationality, and gender are concerned, there is a shared core of advocacy. Being queer means championing sex and soliciting sex be marked by consent. Queerness loathes the conduct of participants in a culture of commodity and that problematic policy is not limited to those imposed upon women’s bodies in the face of multiple mass shootings. To be queer means to seek the dimensions in every situation and their impact on individuals. I am proud to belong to a collective movement caring about the details and rejecting standard constructs and emphasizing compassion. Sometimes the strongest form of resistance is non-compliance. No binaries allows room for intersectionality. By not taking the first blanket understanding and continuing to decline the expectation to keep our head down, play nice, and nod to the normative, we illuminate an uncommonly spectacular realm of possibility. Visibility is power, and a community not dictated by commodity or category is a wakeup call rather than a self-indulgent cult of skin. Finally in my cine-spree, I re-watched Casablanca* for the film’s 75th anniversary. The question re-emerges: save the world or cleave to love? This is where the lack of binaries come in handy again. While the world may be burning, reinforcing our sense of self-love and commitment to walking in observant advocacy that is as strong as our own unique self-concept. We are already changing the world.
Jack Wortel 42
Dr. Gay Love or The first time I came, furtively jerking off in my bedroom sometime after midnight, it was to a video of a young, callipygian man being paddled. His hands bound above his head, the milky expanse of his taut back mirror the creamy white of the puddle rapidly cooling in my palm. A wave of shame rolled over me, so intense it left me pale and panting. What had I done? All the next day, I fidgeted in class, drawing my teachers’ continued ire by my refusal to sit still. But every time I closed my eyes, in every quiet lull, the sound of wood smacking rosy flesh overcame me, quickening my pulse and tightening my jeans. I vowed to never jack off again, knowing full well I would do so that very night. Thus began a complicated journey, simultaneously burdened and enlightened by the cosmic highs and pitying lows succeeding my orgasms. The frenzied, almost druginduced dash to my bedroom, frantically locking the door and shirking off my pants, would inevitably be followed by a morose, crushing feeling of self-loathing. I was trapped in a vicious circle jerk. By senior year of high school, I’d reached a compromise: I could masturbate to my heart (and dick’s) content, but sex remained strictly off the table. At the time, I defined sex, as most Americans erroneously still do, as solely an act of penetration. The rest, I figured, was up for grabs. But the options for a queer, socially awkward youth are limited. To my knowledge, there was only one other gay boy in my high 47
school, and after being rejected outright by him, I turned, as many of my generation have and continue to, to the internet. His name, I think, was Steven, and after responding to his Craigslist ad, we met in the parking lot of a Best Buy. After fumbling in the backseat for forty-five minutes, we jerked each other off, splattering our respective stomachs as we sweltered in the afternoon heat. I remember most vividly his complete aversion to having his face touched and how his ass felt in my hands. Leading up to the encounter, the same fears you’d expect assailed my mind— that I’d be murdered, kidnapped, or worse, that he wouldn’t show, that he would and I’d think he was ugly, that he’d show and think I was ugly. But most pervasive of all was the needling worry that this would tip me over the edge. That after having tasted the ambrosia of sex, the dull, listless pleasure offered by my own hand would cease to satisfy me.
I was one hundred percent correct.
Now, this is not to say that I stopped jerking off—far from it. My mind had been supplied with tangible experience from which to draw. If anything, my nightly (and morning, and midafternoon) sessions grew more impassioned, my body arched off the bed, breath feverish and strained. I became proficient in posting personals, I learned the wording (young (18) TWINK, can’t host, seeking…), and my angles, which never included my face. From that first tryst in my PT Cruiser, I started meeting men every week, and then multiple times a week. Each offered a new experience, something
How I Learned to Stop Worrying & Love the Dick fresh to discover. But always, always, I stopped short of actually fucking. That is, until I got to college. Receiving my first smartphone coincided snugly with the advent of Grindr, but I soon discovered that on a campus of only 2,000, nestled deep in the forest of the Hudson Valley, equally effective as any hookup app was simply shouting “WANNA FUCK?!” and seeing what happened. My mission, beyond broadening my intellectual horizons, was broadening my hole. Trolling parties, I made it a point to leave with someone—sometimes two someones. Yet still I hesitated on the edge of actually “going all the way.” I knew myself—emotional, cripplingly romantic, quick to attach and slow to let go—and understandably feared what would happen when I actually had sex. Would I become one of those teary-eyed, obsessed girls I saw on television, pining after Johnny after a bounce at Make Out Point? Afraid of my own sentimentality, of feeling and wanting too much, I shut myself off. I closed my heart. His name, I know, was Andrew. He told me to call him Andy. We met at a dorm party where I was shitfaced off straight, rotgut vodka. I’d asked my friend Billy who’d be most likely to want to hook up, and without hesitation he pointed me towards Andy. We couldn’t have been dancing for more than fifteen minutes when he asked if I wanted to get out of there, which I desperately did. For reasons that time and alcohol have since obfuscated, we ended up in my room instead of his. We fed each other spearmint gum to cover up the taste of each other’s vomit. He went slow, then fast,
and spanked me when I asked him to. After all was said and done, I asked if he wanted to spend the night, but he said it was his policy to never sleep over on the first date. The next morning, I awoke with my first hangover and a renewed belief that the concept of virginity was worth about as much as the chunks of breakfast I flushed down the toilet. I felt, in addition to nauseous, completely free for the first time since I wiped away the evidence with a balled up sock. As queers, we are no strangers to shame. Shame knows us by our first names and calls us on the weekend just to check in. Shame has a reserved seat at Thanksgiving, all too often lovingly preserved by our parents and extended family. Shame has us on speed dial, and never lets us forget it. Shame comes to visit, often with its cousin, fear, to remind us that we are unworthy, that we are degenerate and disgusting. For years, I lied entrenched in shame, certain that what I did, what I wanted, was somehow wrong or dirty, despite it being no different from what anyone else did. Now, a confirmed, dick-loving slut, I wonder what would have happened if I’d let Steven (or was it Stanley) fuck me. Would have I been unburdened of the patriarchal shackles of virginity that much sooner? Or was I not yet ready? Was I simply waiting all along for a blond, brown-eyed boy with lips that tasted of spearmint to come and fuck all my worries away?
-Alex -Alex Franco Franco 48
The Politics of Public Sex in Southwest Virginia and Beyond
After the Stonewall Rebellion in 1969, queers across the nation came together to celebrate sexual diversity and sexual freedom. During the 1970s, the queer politics of public and private sex became entwined with gay liberation as activists worked to decriminalize sodomy and destigmatize queer sex. The opposition they faced from moral conservatives inside and outside of the LGBTQ community, police, city and state governments, and national institutions invested in maintaining heteronormative, bourgeois moral codes was formidable. Realistically, the acceptance of public and proud displays of queer sexuality meant a destabilization of compulsive heterosexuality, heterosexist patriarchal family order, and hegemonic sexual norms. Radical gay lib’s challenges to the establishment spawned reactionary indignation in mainstream society, and existing sodomy laws served to enforce this indignation. Here in Southwest Virginia’s urban hub, Roanoke, anti-sodomy laws were used by local police to persecute cruisers in public parks, by the ABC board to 51
discourage bar owners from selling alcohol to “known homosexuals,” and by bar owners themselves to prevent public displays of affection between gay patrons. During the AIDS crisis of the 1980s, queer sex was further stigmatized in the city because of the commonly-held belief that sodomy caused the HIV virus. This stigmatization especially affected local trans sex workers, who were ostracized by both the gay community and the straight community for engaging in sex work. The relationship between queer sex and politics in Southwest Virginia speaks to the way public sex has been celebrated by queer communities near and far. It also echoes how queer sex has been censured, policed, and defined by heteronormative culture broadly. In this analysis, I hope to queer bourgeoisie, heterosexist, and patriarchal notions of sex, sexuality, and morality by presenting a sexpositive view of public sex and queer sexual diversity, and by illustrating how codes of sexual morality have been used to persecute queer people and maintain heteronormativity in my home of Southwest Virginia and beyond.
The Politics of Public Sex In their influential anthology on public sex and queer politics, Policing Public Sex, the Dangerous Bedfellows—a collective of academics based in New York City—and other sexpositive writers argue that distinctions such as public/private sex and deviant/natural sex are fabricated axioms meant to uphold heteronormative ideals. Their essays foreground how anti-sodomy laws, health codes, and the public discourse surrounding the 1980s AIDS crisis upheld heteronormativity by criminalizing and stigmatizing queer sex; they also suggest ways of creating a more sex-positive (and less anti-queer) culture. In their view, American sexual morality is prescriptive rather than descriptive—and it explicitly links queer sexuality to sexual deviance, ostracizing queer people and speciously upholding heterosexuality as “normal.” Public and anonymous sex has situated significance for many queer communities, but it is a thrill enjoyed by far more people than sexual morality myths admit—yes, even card-carrying heterosexuals have been known to fuck, suck, and sodomize in public. Yet, sodomy laws have been almost exclusively weaponized against queer people, and public sex almost exclusively considered to be a facet of deviant queer sexuality. Thus, when we talk about sex, we cannot ignore how the politics of power shape sexual mores. Heteronormativity relies on a collective understanding that heterosexual, procreative sex is good and normal sex; that queer sex is deviant sex or not sex and all; and that all sex is fundamentally private and personal. Public, queer sex challenges these beliefs and confronts the tenuous foundations of heteronormativity. Thus, allowing space for public sex, embracing sexual diversity, and destigmatizing queer sexuality and all “deviant” consensual, non-coercive sex acts is vital to creating a more sexpositive, queer, and affirming culture. Public Sex and Queer Politics in Southwest Virginia In addition to being a coveted thrill, public sex has also been used by queer people to build community, comradery, and political resistance. In turn, censuring public sex has censured more than the act of sodomy—it has also suppressed queer community. In 20th century Southwest Virginia, gay men from Roanoke spent nights cruising in bars such as “The Last Straw” and “The Trade Winds,” and in public parks. Often ostracized and isolated by the surrounding conservative culture, they cruised for sex and romance as well as for conversation, laughs, and a sense of togetherness that was difficult to come by in the pre-internet era. Gay cruisers in Roanoke were subject to censure from the local police department and the city government, who considered public displays of homosexuality to be a blight on business. Accordingly, the Roanoke PD arrested hundreds of gay men cruising in local parks on “Crimes Against Nature” charges throughout the 70s, 80s, and 90s. Meanwhile, the city worked to “clean up” the parks. In Roanoke’s Elmwood Park, an urban renewal initiative called “Design 79’” cut off vehicular traffic through the park, effectively stopping cruising. In Roanoke’s Wasena Park, a dog park was built over an area where, previously, there had been reports of public sex between men. These efforts solidified public sex as a deviant practice that disrupted commerce and offended heterosexual, middle class morality. As parks “cleaned up” and the city censured queer sexuality, queer people felt further ostracized. The spaces they went for community and connection were increasingly disappearing. The politics of public sex also played out in Roanoke’s gay bars. In Murphy’s Super Disco—a 1970s era bar owned by straight people that went “gay for pay”— Virginia’s ABC 54
laws were posted at the door to warn patrons that alcohol could not be served to “known homosexuals” or prostitutes. This homophobic policy was not amended in Virginia until the early 1990s; before then, ABC laws were used to intimidate queer people and discourage them from public displays of affection—cruising, kissing, dancing, and anything else that might “out” them. Roanoke’s gay bars were generally concerned with respectability. Many policed the behavior of patrons with ABC laws and “proper gender attire” rules that stipulated what kind of clothing customers could wear. Even in distinctly gay spaces, queer sexuality could still be shamed and shoved back into the closet to uphold heteronormative ideals. Straight patrons did not typically face the same hostility. During the 70s and 80s, straight people explored sexual liberation for themselves by squeezing into polyester jumpsuits and thrusting to disco music at trendy discoteques—generally without fear of arrest or harassment. The history of public sex in Southwest Virginia includes the history of sex workers in Roanoke, many of whom were transgender. Public disgust towards sex workers is rooted in bourgeois, heteronormative morality that treats public sex and paid sex as deviant and debasing. During the 1970s, Roanoke PD’s Vice Squad worked to remove trans sex workers from the city center—often by arresting them for soliciting—so that the area would become more appealing to middleclass families and businesses. Evidently, morality is also a useful tool in propping up capitalist enterprise. The PD never really succeeded in “defeating” prostitution, they merely relocated it to other parts of the city. Sex workers continued to work in Roanoke throughout the 80s and 90s—and still today. During the AIDS crisis, people within and outside of the gay community leveled further judgments against trans sex workers specifically for fear that they were spreading HIV. This association between HIV and paid/ public anonymous queer sex was pervasive 55
throughout the 80s and 90s, and in Policing Public Sex, The Dangerous Bedfellows outline the way the language of AIDS-related health policies in New York City often stigmatized queer sex and contributed to this mythic association, despite evidence suggesting that most forms of sodomy—like oral sex, for instance—do not contribute significantly to the spread of AIDS. This was not an isolated occurrence. Everywhere AIDS touched, the fear the crisis provoked was weaponized against queer people as evidence of their unnaturalness, even as many queer people lost their lives to the disease. In this case, popular morality was not only oppressive—it was deadly. The Importance of Queering Sex I, like most, grew up believing that heterosexuality was normal, that sex itself—if not private and personal—was debasing and shameful, and that queer sexuality was inherently deviant and even dangerous. When I became aware of my own queerness, I felt that it was necessary to deconstruct the moral codes I grew up around, particularly the ones that seemed orchestrated to make queer people feel like outsiders. Through meeting other queer people and talking more openly about sex and sexuality generally, I have learned that the truth about what we each want and desire is often markedly different than what we are told to want and desire. It is power—not truth—that has created a code of morality in which only one kind of sex is right and natural and all the rest are wrong and deviant—and this power has been repeatedly used throughout history to prevent queer people from proudly claiming their sexualities in my community and in communities across the country. In analyzing the connection between the history of public sex and the politics of power, I am making a case for how queer, public sex challenges a power system that teaches queer people to feel ashamed of themselves. This challenge, I think, should be fiercely celebrated and defended.
Photos: Ryan Duffin Words: Tyler Scruggs Stylist: Joanne Henriquez Leather: Mother of Exile
THE CASTLE Instead of explaining myself, I tell people the story of a dream I had once. I was in a Disney World-style amusement park. Pretzel vendors and strollers were everywhere. Suddenly the wind picked up and heavy, hard drops of rain dotted the pavement. Then the tornado appeared. The music stopped. An alarm sounded somewhere. Parents with diaper bags turned around, confused. A girl holding a balloon, barely over four, stood with her finger in her mouth. Then someone shouted. Then everyone saw it. We started running. We all knew to run to the castle. Maybe we overheard someone say it was the safest place to be, or maybe it was simply the largest structure nearby. Parents scooped up their kids like sacks of flour, abandoned their strollers, and ran for it. I always imagine situations like this to be chaotic and filled with panic and shouting. But it was quiet: panting breath and the swish of
tracksuits and infants crying and the low roar of a coming storm. People don’t know this, but tornadoes move incredibly fast. The wind was incredible. Around us, plastic bags and trash whirled in the air. We were running and I was crossing the footbridge (footbridge?) into the castle. I looked behind me and saw a caterpillar ride ripped up from its rails and flung into the sky like a twisting eel. The castle was in the middle of the park, like Cinderella’s Castle in Disney’s Magic Kingdom, only this one looked like it was made of green glass. I later realized what it looked like: the Emerald City from The Wizard of Oz. We slammed the door — a big, heavy wooden door, the kind you expect on a castle — and sprinted into a central ballroom where families were huddled in the dark. Our footsteps echoed on the marble floor. The power was out. Against the wall, a teenager in a black hoodie was bleeding from the side of his head. Many 70
people were crying and shouting on their phones. Children sat on the floor dumbly staring. I was shaking against a pillar. The ballroom looked like the place where conferences or large Christmas performances were held. I imagined lavish hotel suites somewhere above us and grimy storage rooms below filled with folding tables and electrical equipment, First Aid kits and crates of Coca-Cola. I walked around. I found an empty gift shop and a flight of stairs leading down to a large underground swimming pool. Safety lights along the wall gave the room a silver glow — bright enough to see two men disappear into a doorway on the far wall. I followed them. I think it was the men’s locker room, but I couldn’t see anything. The room was hot and completely dark. Light came from another doorway illuminated in soft pink glow. I walked through and was at the top of a narrow flight of stone steps. The walls were stone. I still remember the stone, passing my hand over its roughness, the grime on the steps, the doorway at the bottom that opened into a dark, stuffy hallway with one red light bulb hanging from the ceiling on a black cord. Then I heard it — the soft, padded slap of skin, a breathy groan. Dark rooms lined the hallway with doors barely cracked. From one room I heard the wet sound of thrusting and a gasping, barely audible, “fuck.” I turned the corner. Huddled in the dark was a circle of men gathered around a guy on his knees. I turned around. Behind me, a man stood in the corner. In the corner beside him was an empty fuck sling. His pants were at his ankles. He was staring at me but I couldn’t see his eyes. I took off my clothes. One of the guys in the circle circled noticed and touched the guy next to him. The rest of them turned. I climbed in the sling. Without a word, they approached. I lifted my legs. Someone grabbed my ankles and pulled them through the stirrups. I heard the click of a belt buckle, then a strip of leather was tight around my throat. 71
And the dream ended. As I write this, I’m trembling. It is the most erotic and powerful memory of my life, one I never lived — one I’ve been chasing for years. I have analyzed and written about it many times. The theological interpretation is obvious — the whole thing is very Dante. The idyllic Heaven of the kiddie theme park, a Paradise lost; the literal descent into Hell (the red light bulb). Obvious, too, is the park as childhood innocence ripped away, succumbed to adulthood, a descent into something dark and lovely. I don’t know how to read it. A college poetry professor told me to resist dragging poems to the middle of the room and beating meaning out of them. That’s the way we handle stories — we wrangle morals from them. Christ taught us to read everything as parable, and look what happened to him. Truth, like desire, transcends interpretation. More fascinating is the fact that, out of every memory in my life, from dimlylit fisting parties in San Francisco to hardcore anonymous gangbangs in L.A. — the dream stands out as the hottest story I have, the memory I treasure above all others. No sexual experience? No problem. Don’t discredit the power of fantasy and imagination — the building blocks of sex. As a sex writer and escort, I’ve talked to many people who want to make the leap, who crave more sex and want to explore their fetishes. The first step is hard. They fear rejection, or they feel they have nothing to offer. Here’s what I tell them: The hunger means you’re already here. You’re one of us. Some people are satisfied with less — less sex, less pleasure, less adventure. They are content to read stories and not live them. I’m not that kind of person. Having desire is the essential ingredient, the spark on which everything else burns. Once you have a fantasy and acknowledge it, all that lies before you is the chase. You can keep it a dream or you can make it happen. You can flee the garden and raise your children or you can be the snake, slinking down the tree into the belly of the earth with an apple in your mouth.
She asks me to tell her what I like and I do not because as she does her eyes soften and my cheeks flush so slightly as she holds my eyes up by the chin gently with rough hands and in them, I feel them soften in reply
My path to the sensations you give out at the end of your blade was a slow one. Stagnant really. I walked along and felt the weight of rape and the needle of moral compasses guiding my path. Surely, it’s wrong to feel excited by this. Obviously, I shouldn’t like the tension in which my hair was pulled. Clearly, I shouldn’t be aroused by the aggression. I hesitated and the topic was buried in decay and long, heavy breaths. Out of nowhere I ran into you. You took my compass and smashed it, took the needle and held it to my neck…challenging my direction, my existence, my sex. I closed my eyes and let the point sink in…to my flesh…to my thoughts… Now I wait with anticipation at the straps newly placed on your bed
And I can’t wait for you to tell me what I’m not allowed to do My eyes begging you to not treat me right Please don’t treat me right. When I wake up in the morning I want to see the map you’ve left on my body- the tracks of where you’ve been. I want my legs to quiver… the tension of being touched…of not being able to move… or close my legs… You’re going to give it all to me- your facial expression calculates your moves and gives you away- and that is where I know my power… How hard you jerk my leash…the depth your knife digs in…the tightness of your grip on my neck… Is up to me. Dominate me all night long, but don’t forget I am the one who is in control.
Jessica Daily 75
Pea ch & Crea m : M u s i n g s fro m t h e Bat h room F loor Raise your hand if you first associated orgasms with shame. I know I’m not the only one. It took me years to pry these two apart, wrap my fingers around the deep, hot shame that folded itself around my pleasure, and yank, wrenching it off – leaving only the deep, hot part. I was twelve the first time I touched myself, discovering that thrill that makes itself known when it is ready to be known. I learned myself, found the hollows and rivulets of that warm, wet place, and make it sing. I recall acutely that agonizing crest of heady joy, just before I came, when my body was on fire and there was no going back. In those moments, I experienced nothing but
tremendous bliss, that perfect impossibility of wanting to stay forever in an ephemeral moment. But at the peak of the crescendo I would meet my shame. A white, hot burst of energy would be released – and let in a flash of ponytail, a swath of smooth calves, as the girls on my soccer team sprinted through my mind. They smiled at me, winsomely dimpled and cute, popular and happy and straight and normal. Then they raced away, slender, freckled arms tucked sportily at their sides, and all my pleasure evaporated into shame. There was something wrong with me. I would vow never to touch myself again, lest I
dirty myself further with this perverted indulgence. When I saw them at soccer practice in the following days, I would blush furiously, forcing myself to forget that they had hovered in my mind while my body spasmed with tormented pleasure. They were friendly to me, but distant; they were popular, and I was not, and though I prayed they suspected nothing of my grotesque wrongness, I wondered if they could smell it anyways. I was quiet and mostly invisible, a soccer player of forgettable talent, a girl whose riotously colorful self was contained entirely within. But what healthy kid can ever resist the temptation of that warmth. In a 78
dusty corner of the bathroom cabinet, I found a gift set of lotion and body wash, never used. They were peach scented – a sickly sweet, artificial peach, which likely explained their disuse. Ashamed of myself already, but drawn intractably towards pleasure, I popped the lid open and squeezed some of the lotion into my hand. I will never forget the smooth, hear t-hammering deliciousness of sliding that cool lotion between my legs, lying prone on the tiles of the bathroom floor. I knew how to build myself towards blissful release, draw my fingers across my clit in the way that made my breath catch, my eyes roll back, desperate to fulfill this fiery, urgent 79
ritual. The scent of artificial peach made me nauseous for years. Cheeks burning, I would yank my hand out from my legs, snap the lid back on immediately, and shove the bottle back into the corner. It settled back in, next to its mate, the peachscented body wash, which remained stubbornly full while I slowly emptied the lotion over years of furtive selfpleasuring, always a heady dance of self-love and selfloathing. It felt good, and it was not normal, and for that I punished myself for years. You know. We’ve all punished ourselves for the illicit deliciousness of our not-normal pleasure. We all made the choice, at some point or another, to
¬R ACH EL
reach into the fire and rescue that pleasure, to brush it off, forgive it, and revel in its joy. It took years, but I learned to revel. Today, a work call ended early, and I had a spare twenty minutes to myself. Alone in my apartment, I stripped off my jeans, tilted my head back, and gave myself all the pleasure that I craved, that I have always craved. There, that same build, that same crescendo of heady bliss, that I recall so acutely from my early adolescence. That perfect impossibility of wanting to stay forever in an ephemeral moment. And at the peak of that crescendo I meet nothing but joy. I have arrived.
GA RB US
Excerpt #1 from “GOING DOWN” Mykel Johnson
Reese climbed out of the pool and walked to the locker room. Tiny spritzes of water scattered from under his feet with each step he took on the cold, hard cement. It was 5:45 pm Coach Carter cut practice short and was gone before he explained why. This dream felt real to Reese, although he knew he hadn’t seen his coach or his teammates in three years. Reese hurried to the locker room, hoping to get in, out, and back to the dorms as quickly as possible. He couldn’t handle being surrounded by his rowdy teammates during their overly playful process of getting dressed. Entering the portal labeled ‘MEN,’ Reese felt time immediately begin to slacken, and the speed of his movements were decreased to that of a sloth. Three other members of the team ran in and proceeded to peel off their speedos. Reese usually changed in a stall to avoid risking his wandering eye being noticed, but he was only now hooking his fingers onto the handle of his bag, still barely moving, his back to everyone. Stanley and Rick were already naked, talking and laughing about something Reese couldn’t catch. They weren’t in any hurry to put on any clothes. Joey, the only guy on the team who wore briefs as opposed to the jammers the rest of the guys wore, walked over to Reese and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey, Reese!” Joey called. “What’s
the problem, man? You’re usually outta here by now.” Reese knew why he was still there. He wanted to take his time while changing his clothes and to casually glance at his teammates’ svelte bodies. He wanted to see if Rick was a grower or a shower. He wanted to turn around. “I…” A nervous laugh coughed out of him. “I don’t know, dude. This bag’s kinda heavy. I don’t thi–.” Joey spun Reese around to face him and smirked, his rubber swim cap still on his head. Joey’s shoulders were broad and his skin was tan. His pectorals were full and tight, his nipples stretched horizontally. His six bulging abs mocked Reese, water still dripping from one onto another. One droplet Reese happened to be following led his eyes to Joey’s yellow briefs, under which a thick penis throbbed. It laid strapped to the left of his pelvis, extending slightly toward his hip and retreating at a slow, sporadic pace. “Why don’t you help me out of my shorts,” Joey said and grabbed Reese’s left hand. “They’re a little tight.” He lowered Reese’s hand toward his crotch, maneuvering Reese’s fingers under the nylon fabric and behind his member. Reese felt Joey’s hardness strengthen as his fingers were guided around what he’d only imagined during his weakest moments. Reese tightened his grip without further guidance from Joey to which Joey bit his lip and closed his eyes. After a 84
moment, Joey looked at Reese. He leaned in, pushed Reese down on the bench they stood in front of and stood closer to him. Reese’s hand was still in Joey’s speedo, clinging onto his appendage with a steady grip, but was now looking directly at Joey’s crotch. He glanced up at Joey. “You and I both know you want that cock down your throat,” Joey said. He smiled the boyish smile Reese remembered from the first time they met. “I won’t tell anyone.” Joey looked back at Stanley and Rick who were actually kissing rather intensely. Their slim, pale bodies swayed against each other with every fierce inhalation of oxygen through their nostrils. Rick slid his right leg between both of Stanley’s, entangling themselves in each other even more. Reece noticed, and his breathing quickened. Joey looked back down at Reese. “It’s now or never, man. I don’t know how much longer they’ll be able to stand each other.” He laughed. “Just slide ’em off.” Reese lifted a shaking right hand to Joey’s speedo, latched his index and middle fingers onto the band and tugged them down. The heft of Joey’s tension swung and smacked Reese on the cheek, and, before he knew it, it had already been pushed past his lips. He felt Joey grab the back of his head and pull it towards him, pressing his face hard against Joey’s pelvis. He wondered why he wasn’t gagging, considering Joey’s size, but
he couldn’t feel anything. He sensed a thickness well into his throat, but it didn’t feel as present as he had thought it would. Either way, Reese couldn’t get enough of Joey. Joey continued to hold onto the back of Reese’s head and began thrusting out and in. Reese only felt his head jerk back and forth and brushed his hands up Joey’s torso and around to his shoulder blades. Joey pulled off his cap and shook his slick black hair into a mess on his head. He ran a hand through his mane and tilted his head back. He felt Reese’s hands slide down his back and onto his buttocks, lingering. As Reese began to slide his middle finger between Joey’s crack, Oasis’ “Wonderwall” sounded from the radio beside his bed. Reese woke with a jerk, looking frantically around him. A 24” TV, a bookshelf cluttered with handouts and books he hadn’t bothered reading for an uninteresting class, gray walls barely lit by what little light shone through his makeshift towel curtain – he was in his dorm room. And Liam Gallagher was still singing. There are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don’t know h–. Reese switched off the alarm and retracted back against his pillow, placing both hands over his face. “Fuck.”
SELF-CONSUMMATION OF A
QUEER BLACK WOMAN Kae Goode
Loving your true- authentic self is a very revolutionary act. Throughout society Black Queer-femme Bodied Folx are told they are not enough—or they are “too much”. Even, their bodies are sometimes not enough. Being a Curvy Black Trans Woman of Color I have had my fair-share of interesting relationship experience. I have dated men, and dealt with men who have fetishized my body only seeing me as an object meant for the consumption of their desire. I was only expected to exist in spaces with them temporarily. All those experiences were not all bad, I have had many other experiences with men that were amazing but, I could not fully enjoy them due to the men who destroyed those potentially fulfilling experiences. I had to find a place outside the pain, outside the sex, outside the expectation---and love myself. I created this photo essay for myself… and other femmebodied queer folx who were so lost in the idea of companionship to actually love themselves… Self-Consummation of a Queer Black Woman, was created as a message for queer folx and other marginalized bodies that no matter what or who oppresses you or, attempts to hurt you, you have to search for the love within yourself. To fall in love with yourself, celebrate that beautiful soul and amazing body. Years after surviving the wilderness after, being held in captivity where society entrapped 92
her, she finally had the gumption to escape. After escaping, she went on an excursion that had to the opportunity to go on, searching for something she was not quite sure of. She looked..and looked—nothing. Then, Finally what felt like years she finally found what she was looking for all along—the love of herself. That night she created vows in promising to forever cherish and love herself, her body which was rejected yet hypersexualized; and an identity that was erased and constantly re-imagined. She said, “I, offer myself to you. I will take you and cherish your existence always being present; never leaving your side. In the presence of the universe I take thee, I promise to comfort you, honor you, respect you; in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, as long as we both shall live I promise to be faithful to your body, mind, soul and your Queerness.” At that time she married herself. In that hour she sealed her marriage with her fortress. Her fortress stood as a promise that she would never ever lose the love she searched so long for. Her fortress was her was her stimulation; which became her solace.
EDITOR IN CHIEF Jon Dean MANAGING EDITOR Barry Brandon WRITING EDITOR Nicholas Goodly GRAPHIC DESIGN Blake England WRITTEN CONTRIBUTORS Aila Boyd, Alex Cheves, Alex Franco, Jack Wortel, Jessica Daily, Kae Goode, Mykel Johnson, Nico Stuart, Rachel Barton, Rachel Garbus, Ryder McEntyre, Stone Irvin, & Tyler Scruggs VISUAL CONTRIBUTORS Allen Forrest, Austin Frantz, Brian Barbieri, Cameron Lee, CK Walker, Chris Humbles, Curtis Bryant, David Howard, David Parra, Jesus Ordaz, Jon Dean, Johnnie Ray Kornegay III, Joshua Tabor, Kate Shannon, Kylie Ann Petrie, LaRue Calliet, Laura Thigpen, Lear Podurgiel, Luis Aceves, Makenzie Morrisey, Matt Jones, Maz Ei, Mickey Aloisio, Mo Costello, Richard Vyse, Rico Thorton, Ryan Duffin, & Shelby Hawk SPECIAL THANKS Matt Jones & Sunni Johnson
Dedicated to our ATL friends, who are all sluts. This volume contains the work of over forty Southern Queers.
Cover Story ft. musician Shamir Shot by Ryan Duffin Leather Designs by Mother of Exile NYC Styled by Joanne Henriquez Featuring work from o...
Published on Jan 30, 2019
Cover Story ft. musician Shamir Shot by Ryan Duffin Leather Designs by Mother of Exile NYC Styled by Joanne Henriquez Featuring work from o...